


my world in foreign hands

by queenandlazy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, F/M, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Pacific Northwest, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, first fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-26 20:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15008696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenandlazy/pseuds/queenandlazy
Summary: When they were children, Robb had tried to teach her how to shoot. He’d always been too impatient, and try as she might she couldn’t remember what his hands felt like steadying hers. Jon’s hands had felt like ellipses, like a held breath.





	my world in foreign hands

**Author's Note:**

> This work was born at 35,000 feet, as I flew back home to the Pacific Northwest. I was thinking about the trees and the mountains and about Jonsa, and somehow this was done by the time I reached home. It's intentionally ambiguous--I wanted to paint a portrait more of Sansa in this strange land than anything else. I hope you enjoy it. This is my first fic on AO3, so thanks for reading! I'm grateful for any feedback you have.
> 
> Title comes from "Foreign Hands" by George Ogilvie.
> 
> Much love,  
> Q

It’s a strange town, maybe. The evergreens are nothing like Michigan, the sea of dark green so different than the ever changing forests she’s used to. Sansa misses the leaves, the fading seasons. Time seems suspended here, the days a steady stream of rain against her bedroom window.

The people are strange too. She gets the sense that there are two kinds, those who were born here, who have never wanted to leave. And those who came here from somewhere else, and are no longer able to. Either way, they like their privacy, and in that too, this place is so unlike Winterfell. Jon says it’s a good thing, that this land was settled by criminals and prostitutes, and discretion is bred in their bones. She thinks anyone this far from civilization has a reason to keep to themselves. It makes her incredibly lonely.

Jon is not good company. He doesn’t mind the isolation, but then, he never had many friends. Sullen and dark, angry at everything and everyone but mostly angry at himself for not being one of them. She was surprised when he came for her. After all, she had never been kind to him.

He’s gone most days, working at the lumber mill or hunting. He brings home deer once in awhile but mostly rabbits and squirrels, and he skins them on the back porch of their house just like her father taught him. Him and Robb. Sansa thinks of them in the yard, practicing their shots. She can almost hear Robb’s easy sunshine laugh. Sometimes she hates Jon for being the only one she has left. Maybe she’s not great company either.

They don’t talk much. In the car on their cross-country drive, they rarely spoke at all. They drove through the night, stopped only when she had to pee or he started falling asleep at the wheel. She didn’t ask him why he came for her. She wanted to, but she felt like if she pointed out that he had no reason to, no tie to her now that everyone they shared was dead, that he might turn the car around and take her back. When they arrived at the weathered gray house, he’d explained that it belonged to an old friend, someone he met at the Wall. He said they’d be safe here.

He’d gone out the next day and gotten a job at the lumber mill. She’d gotten one at the library. It was part time, barely paid, and left her with altogether too much time to think. She’d wanted to work at the diner in town, or maybe the bar, but they weren’t hiring.

So she shelved books, tried to spruce up the house, cooked Jon dinner, and spent most her time reading fairytales.

This was her life now. She tried to remind herself she was lucky to have it.

 

* * *

 

They’d been in town for eight months when she saw a face she thought she recognized. She was leaving her shift at the library, just about to turn the corner onto Main Street when the diner bell jingled and a man stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of her. He glanced at the closing door and she saw his profile: heavy brow, jagged nose, a jaw like a pitbull—and then he turned and began to walk and she stayed frozen in place.

He had disappeared from view when she came back to herself. Stupid girl, she thought. He could have turned at any minute and saw you standing there like a deer in headlight. Or a lamb waiting for slaughter. She began to move, her legs feeling stiff, her body jerking clumsily like she wasn’t fully in control. Down First onto Barlow and then Cutter and she spoke the street names under her breath, reciting her route home first once then over and over again until she was inside her house and the door was locked behind her. She got Jon’s rifle even though she knew it wasn’t loaded, and sat in front of the door to wait.

It was dark when Jon got home.

“Jesus fucking Christ Sansa what the hell are you doing?” he asked, and she realized she hadn’t turned on a light since nightfall. “What are you doing with my gun?”

He took it out of her hands, not roughly though she knew that said more about all her father’s lessons on gun safety and less of what Jon felt for her. He never hurt her, rarely even raised his voice, but there was little gentleness left in Jon.

“Sansa?” he repeated when she didn’t answer him.

“Ramsay Bolton is here,” she finally managed, and her voice sounded strange even to her.

“What?”

“I saw one of his men at the diner—”

“Did you go on the internet? Contact anyone from home? Sansa, how did he know we were here?”

He began to pace but still Sansa stared ahead.

“Sansa are you hearing me? How did he find us?” Jon was practically shouting now but it didn’t touch her. Nothing could touch her because Ramsay already had, and his fingerprints were on her and inside her and he was here and he was going to kill Jon and take her back and she would never escape again.

“Sansa.” The voice was soft, and maybe that’s what made her look up from her empty hands. Jon was crouched in front of her. She looked back at her hands, wondering vaguely where the gun had gone, but then Jon laced his fingers with hers.

It was the first time she could remember him touching her since they were children. She studied his hands, focusing on the lines and calluses and broken skin. They felt rough on hers and the sensation was as far from Ramsey’s girlish softness as could be.

“Look at me.”

She did.

“I know this is scary, but I need you to focus. I need you sharp in case we have to go.”

She nodded, once.

“Did you see Ramsay?”

She shook her head and tried out her voice again. “I saw one of his men.”

“Who was it? Do you know his name?”

“No I—I’m not sure who it was I just saw him and I knew he was Ramsay’s.”

To Jon’s credit, his face didn’t betray the doubt he must have felt. “Okay, he see you?”

“No. I was behind him, he kept walking.”

“Did he look like he was looking for anything?”

She wasn’t sure, and Jon could read it on her face. “I need you to pack a bag. Clothes for a few days and anything that’s important, in case we need to go quickly. Can you do that?”

She nodded.

“You’re going to be okay. I will protect you I promise.”

Sansa thought of telling him that nobody could protect her. She thought of thanking him for trying. In the end she removed her hands from his, and went into her bedroom to pack.

 

* * *

 

Dawn was just softening the horizon when they made it to their destination. Sansa was chilled through and exhausted, but relief warred with dismay. The hunting cabin was small. Just one room, with a bare twin mattress, a small couch and a chest of drawers. The fireplace was charred and stale, and lank curtains hung in the windows. Sansa noticed they were a faded flower print, and she briefly wondered how such a feminine touch made its way to this place.

“Don’t light the fire,” Jon said, dropping the bag of food next to the couch. He retrieved blankets from the drawers and placed them on the bed. “I’m going to look for Ramsay. I’m leaving you with my handgun, it’s loaded.” He pulled it from its holster, careful to keep the barrel pointed down. “Here’s the safety. Click it off to shoot.” He clicked it off, then on again, and handed her the gun.

It was heavier than it looked, and the weight sent a thrill of fear though her chest. “What if I drop it?”

“Don’t.” He angled her body alongside hers, not touching, but the closest he'd been to her in years. “Here, lead with your left foot.” Jon nudged her foot forward with his. “Relax your knees a bit.”

She tried to loosen her stance but he was standing so close. If she shifted just slightly to the left their bodies would be touching and she would have his warmth on her skin. Her head was dizzy with it, but Jon seemed not to notice.

He took her left hand and brought it to support the stock. “When you shoot, you’ll want to hold the gun in place with this hand. That way it won’t kick back into your face.”

Sansa gripped the gun tighter.

“Sort of,” he said. “You want a firm grip, but not stiff. Good, like that. Now here and here,” he pointed to three knobs arranged in a triangle on the top of the gun. “This is the sight. You want that center knob right in the middle of the other two.”

She raised the gun and closed one eye like she’d seen in movies.

“Good.” His hands were still on hers, guiding her index finger straight. “When you’re aiming, keep your index finger parallel with the barrel. When you’re ready to shoot, bring it down to the trigger.”

“What do I aim for?”

“The chest.”

 Sansa swallowed, then nodded. “Okay.”

Jon took the gun and placed it gently on the dresser before returning to her. He took her hands in his and again she stared at them.

“Everything will be okay, Sansa. I’ll be back soon.”

She risked a glance to his face. He looked like he wanted to say something more, but faltered.

Then he left.

Sansa locked the door behind him and surveyed the room. The freezing night air and the adrenaline of hiking through the forest had shaken her awake, and she felt more alert than she had been since she first spotted the man.

“Okay, old girl,” she said out loud. “Jon’s gone to town but he’ll be back soon. You are going to stay here and hold down the fort.” She dragged the couch to face the door and began making a nest with blankets and the ratty pillow from the bed. Then she overturned an empty crate to serve as a small table, and moved the gun to it, waiting.

When they were children, Robb had tried to teach her how to shoot. He’d always been too impatient, and try as she might she couldn’t remember what his hands felt like steadying hers. Jon’s hands had felt like ellipses, like a held breath. She closed her eyes and conjured his touch. With the ghosts of his hands on her skin, she fell into a dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

Sansa jolted awake, body electric. For a disorienting second she wondered if she’d woken from a nightmare, but then she heard it again. The crack of a twig.

Her breath came in shudders and she couldn’t calm it. Please be Jon, she prayed, scrambling for the gun. Please please please be Jon, she repeated, over and over until it was just a litany of his name. There was another snap.

She took a halting step forward. She was shaking now, gun leveled at the door but shuddering wildly in her hands.

Jon, Jon, Jon, Jon.

Please.

The silence spun out in front of her, twisting and stretching until it was shaken loose by the sudden rush of leaves, a deer bounding off into the forest. Sansa let out a shaking breath, set down the gun, and began to sob.

 

* * *

 

On the fourth day, the crack of leaves outside pulled Sansa from her book. Fear raced down her spine, chased with relief when she heard Jon’s voice.

“It’s me, Sansa. You can open the door.”

He looked worse than she felt, and she had spent the past four days in constant fear. His hair was greasy and matted, and his eyes were haloed in exhaustion.

“Jon,” she sighed when she saw him. “You’re okay.”

He put a hand on her elbow as he eased passed her, and Sansa held perfectly still, unsure of whether she wanted him to remove his hand or wrap his arms around her.

“I found the man you saw,” he said as he made his way to the bed. “I followed him for a few days. As far as I can tell he’s just a trucker in town for a delivery, but if you want, we can leave.”

“Leave town?” Sansa felt like an idiot, but her body could still feel the echo of his hand on her arm and her mind could still feel Ramsay and she was confused because she had looked at the man and _known_.

“Yeah. I’m—I’m not sure where else to go. Maybe north to Canada.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I need to sleep. Just a few hours then we can go and I’ll figure it out once we’re on the road.”

“You don’t think it’s Ramsay though.”

“I don’t know, San. The guy seemed like just a guy to me, but you know Ramsay. I trust your judgment.”

And maybe it was the strangeness of her childhood nickname so far from any place she could call home. Or maybe it was the secret softness that seeped into his voice somewhere between exhaustion and resignation. Or maybe it was that he trusted her, when she hadn’t trusted herself in years. Sansa sat down beside him on the bed.

Careful not to look in his eyes, she reached towards him and smoothed a wayward curl. In a gentle motion, he caught her hand and brought it to his cheek. His gray eyes watched her, and waited.

“Go to sleep, Jon Snow,” she said finally. “We’ll decide in the morning.”

He turned his face slightly, lips brushing against the fragile skin of her wrist.

The moment stretched out before her, and Sansa was not afraid.

 


End file.
